


Ficlets of Fandoms

by reading_fanfics_at_200am_hbu



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Ficlet Collection, Gen, How Do I Tag, I take suggestions, John Is So Done, Multi, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Sherlock is a Mess, lots of tags, will happen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:01:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23087428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reading_fanfics_at_200am_hbu/pseuds/reading_fanfics_at_200am_hbu
Summary: Just a bunch of little ficlets/drabbles/one shots based on random prompts. Enjoy!
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, John Watson & Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. One Last Time

_ Breathe in. Breathe out. _

_ Breathe in. Breathe out. _

_ In. Out. _

His eyes snap open, blood rushing to his head as he tries and fails to control his breathing. His vision tunnels as he stares at the tunnel ahead. His brain is screaming, shouting at him to  _ Get the Hell Out of There! _ But he can’t. His brother, his little brother, needed him.  _ He could be dead _ .

But Dean just looks at the dark space, and shudders wrack his body as he remembers. Oh, he  _ remembers _ . Waves of fear crash over him as the scenes flash before his eyes. Alastair, coming closer, razor gleaming in his hand as he plans his next attack. Dean, looking down at a crying woman whose face had been burned beyond recognition. And a dark shape, coming closer, getting brighter as it approaches.

_ Come, Dean Winchester. Come to a better place. _

And he remembers waking up in that box, and he couldn’t breathe. He was half expecting Alastair to come from behind, eyes shining with evil anticipation.

And now, Dean stands in front of such a small space, breath coming in short bursts, hands clenching at his sides as he fights the urge to run. Sammy was  _ dragged _ in there, and Dean knew that it was his job to get him back. But he can’t. His eyes shine with tears unshed as he tries to muster up the courage to dive in. But he can’t. And it’s killing him.

“Dean!” He hears his name, and his head snaps up, searching the gaping maw of the hole in the ground for a sign. And he sees it. Slowly but surely, Sam’s head emerges from the abyss, hair matted with blood and dirt and whatever else. Dean shakes to stupor and grabs his brother by the hand, ignoring when the younger winces in pain.

“Where were you Dean? I could’ve used some backup in there.” But Dean could only embrace him, hoping that the touch would do what words could not. Sam blinks in confusion, but accepts the hug anyways.

“You good?” whispered Dean, not wanting his voice to give away the emotion he concealed.

“Yeah. He threw me around the room a bit, but apparently headshots do the trick,” Sam’s eyes flitted to Dean’s eyes, and then to the rest of him, “You?”

Dean wanted to say  _ No, Sammy. I’m pretty far from alright. _ But instead, he gave the normal response.

“Yeah, I’m good. Let’s go home.”

Dean enters his room slowly, throwing the keys on his nightstand and making his way to the bathroom. The way home was quiet, with only the occasional wince from the passenger’s seat to break the silence. Once they arrived home Sam took off to the infirmary to patch himself up, leaving Dean to his own devices.

The panic left over from the attack earlier hasn’t left Dean’s body. He can still feel his pulse racing and see the shadows of demons on the bathroom walls. And he knows how to exorcise these demons.

He promised Sam, two years ago on the hood of the Impala, that he would never do this again. But he  _ needs  _ it. The world is pressing on his shoulders, and he can’t find a way out. His body shakes in anticipation and fear, but the need has now surpassed the want. With a hesitant determination, he opens up one of the drawers in the sink. In one swift move he exposes a hidden panel inside said drawer and withdraws a sharpened razor from its depths.

_ I’m so sorry Sammy _ .

He gripped the rim of the porcelain sink and tried to steady his hands.

“One last time,” He whispered to himself.

One. Last. Time.


	2. Why, Sherlock?

“Sherlock?” John calls out into the darkened flat, disheartened but not surprised when he hears no response. Sighing, he turns on the light and makes his way toward the kitchen for a bite to eat. When he opens the fridge, his stomach immediately revolts and he slams the thing shut in disgust.

“Why the  _ hell _ are there  _ eyes _ in the fridge?” The question was meant to be a rhetorical one, but John hears a faint grunt come from the direction of Sherlock’s room, then a soft thump.

“It was an experiment.” The murmured voice of Sherlock drifts towards John’s ears, and the first thing the doctor notices is how  _ slurred _ the words are.

“Sherlock? You alright?” No response, save for another grunt. John sighed once more, then slowly walked towards Sherlock’s door.

“I’m coming in. Don’t shoot me.” Cracking open the door, John can’t see much of anything, but he does see the outline of the detective's feet on the ground. Now a little concerned, he opens the door all the way to see Sherlock laying the ground, clothes thrown haphazardly around the room, and the duvet from the bed tangled around Sherlock’s form.

“Why are you in my room?” John starts at the sound of his flatmate’s voice, but recovers quickly.

“Why are you on the floor?”

“Unimportant.”

“Huh?”

“I said it’s unimportant.” The slur in the detective's words is even more apparent up close, and John squints in suspicion.

“Are you sober?”

“I’m moderately functional.” John exhales sharply and pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Excellent deduction. Now leave me alone, I need to concentrate.”

“On what?”

“Unimportant.” John would have  _ screamed _ in frustration.

“Why are you drunk?”

“I’m not.”

“Okay, why are you high?”

“I got bored.”

“Sherlock.”

“Hm?”

“ _ Sherlock _ !”

“Yes John?”

“I thought we agreed that you would stick to the patches.”

“The patches?”

“Yes, Sherlock, the patches.”

“Oh, they weren’t working for me.”

John doesn’t even grace that answer with a response. With only a small sound of disapproval, he slams the door shut and makes his way back to the sitting area.

_ Why, Sherlock? After everything we’ve done for you? After everything  _ I’ve _ done for you. Why can’t you keep this one, little promise. Why, Sherlock? _

_ Why. _


End file.
